The Threat of Waking
by LuvEwan
Summary: Obi-Wan deals with the prolonged effects of captivity not just on himself, but those on his Master.
1. Delusions

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The Threat of Waking

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By LuvEwan

PG

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Summary: _Obi-Wan deals with the after-effects of prolonged captivity. Companion piece to 'If I Were To Close My Eyes'._

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Disclaimer: Not mine.

It isn't necessary to have read 'If…" before reading this, although it is recommended for the full effect of the story, the impact events had on both characters. This does not begin in the same place as 'If…", since I think this is where the real story begins for Obi-Wan. The story can be found in my author profile.

This is dedicated, as always, to my readers. So many of you have become friends, and I think I will forever have a soft spot in my heart for Bill Cosby, spokesman for a certain wobbly dessert. (Hee hee.) I have to thank in particular some writers who have influenced my own perspective of Obi-Wan's character: **Sheila**, **obiew**, **Lurkalidth**, **red**, **diane** (and a bit for Qui-Gon, too!), **Shaindl** and of course, **CYN**. There are so many of you who always have me thinking and analyzing things, and as a result, I hope I've given him more dimension than I began writing him with. And anyone whose taken the time to give any kind of review, thanks so much. I probably wouldn't 'have gone through writing this one without support-I know it's going to be difficult for me, so your efforts are greatly appreciated.

In addition, this site has provided me with wonderful, dedicated readers such as **Athena Leigh**_, _**ewan's girl** and **shanobi. **My deepest thanks to you guys.

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One: Delusions

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"Obi-Wan, the salle's going to be full. I don't relish sparring in the corridor again."

A dark mark runs across the paper. I huff and grasp the crumbled bit of eraser between my fingers. Once I've rubbed away the clouded charcoal, I hold the thick, cream-washed paper back.

I shouldn't be able to afford such a luxury, but the sketch pad was a gift, a retreat of merely twenty-two pages. I can go to it for expression, for diversion on a long trip between missions and planets. It gives me the ability to capture an image that would otherwise be fleeting. I can suspend a blink, long enough to etch the scene into my mind, then to the paper.

Some I erase, others I would never dream of diminishing.

I tilt the work towards the lamp. Light, carefully composed lines web together in a pair of ovals. Between them is the beginnings of a distinctive nose.

With narrowed eyes and pursed mouth, I appraise the likeness…and my grip loosens from the book, as frustration tightens in my chest.

Why did I think I could do this? Why did I think I was capable of it?

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"Obi-Wan, I'm going to look ridiculous sparring with MYSELF—about as ridiculous a you will scrubbing the floors with a toothbrush!"

"One bristled?" I murmur in reaction to one of the threats he favors. I stare at the sketch a moment, as if by sheer hope talent will miraculously flood my veins, and perfection will leap to multidimensional life.

"Padawan—"

I slip the battered pad into a deep drawer of my desk. "I'm coming." I try not to be irritated by his persistence. I know which priorities belong at the peak of the Jedi totem.

But I just wanted a few more minutes, to shade in the temple, to finish the bridge—

Time enough for that later.

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I grab my sash and head into the living room.

Master smiles. "Kid, you better wake up."

My eyes open to aching slits.

"Did you hear me, kid?"

I blink as my surroundings solidify from gray mist to dismal slate and brick. My heard doesn't sink…it doesn't plummet, as it did in the early days and months. The pang is gone, the one that left me curled in a ball, huddling in shadow.

After this long, I don't feel any of that. It's a kick in the side when you're already beaten, and nearly numb to the blows.

I know where I am.

And I know where I'm not.

I won't let myself linger in a delusion. He is gone…because _I _am gone.

Maybe he's home.

Or maybe my captors have been lying. I have no reason to trust them, to trust the murky, unreadable clots that represent their hearts. He could have suffered a similar-or worse-fate than I have.

I can't sense him_._

And so it's with an empty soul I stand.

In the beginning, I would have wiped the dust from my skin.

Now I only swipe a forearm across my eyes.

"Don't know why we hafta stand at attention. They just walk by."

My cellmate is a member of a small-in-stature, Humanoid species. With pale skin, ruddy hair and gray eyes, he has quickly blended into the landscape. I don't notice his short, tattered leggings or tattooed chin. Even now, as he grumbled the words he repeats every morning, it's as if I'm looking at an outcropping of a wall, a lump with lips through which pass a lonely, ugly monotone.

He's never asked my name.

In turn, I have stayed my distance, except for the tense moment when we must stand, shoulder to shoulder (relatively speaking), while the guard strides by, one eye, beneath a heavy brow, trained on us.

Then I return to the corner, back braced by unyielding stone. Staring forward, my periphery is striped by rusting steel. At certain angles, light gleams and reveals the smudge of aching fingertips.

I can be honest.

A few are my own.

But no more.

My memories of freedom are no longer fresh, nor the recollection of his face. In early desperation, I dragged my fingers through the layered grime over the floor, until they were raw. My eyes were watering, my head was fogged by exhaustion. So I settled into the fanciful little belief that he was with me, shallowly emerged from the dust.

It couldn't last.

While I slept one night, a guard or maybe even Cellmate, dragged their foot through the feeble sketch.

I didn't attempt to salvage what remained.

Now, a single eye is left.

I wanted to be consoled that he was watching over me.

But the bars are unmoved and so am I.

I'm not a child anymore, protected by my own, illogical sense of optimism. There is no shelter here. When it rains, the water seeps through the cracks and falls on my face. He doesn't catch it, in his wide, rough-hewn palm, or pull me from its path.

I'm marooned here, on a private patch of hell, praying I'll forget that I ever resented his presence, that I wanted to be _alone_…

Forget that I ever knew a life outside this place.


	2. Descended

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Shanobi First off, thank you so much for your comments. And I agree that a lot of fics are needlessly dark. I hope mine has more of a meaning than that. Thank you for reading!

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Athena Leigh I hope it melds well with the first! And thank you for your feedback. You're so great!

Two: Descended

Dusk has fallen, so that it can meld in with the trend here, another note in the sick, static harmony of this thick, cement-and-steel cage.

Most things here fall.

The molded dust from the ceiling, drifting down like a thin puff of ash.

Bodies to the ground, after the day's last trudging step.

Eyelids…finally falling…

Sometimes, never to lift again.

I don't doubt there are those who crave the end. After awhile, the void seems a lovely, numbing pool, never closer. The spirit can only endure so long before it too is weighed down by the chains. There comes a time when you stop reaching through the bars. When you begin to reach for something else, a freedom that cannot be granted in breath and blood.

I don't sense it in Cellmate's eyes. He's the kind that can belong anywhere and nowhere, can spit and grin and complain at the edge of a pub stool or the lip of a volcano. He could remain in this rotting cavern a hundred years more with an unchanging manner.

Others aren't protected by such coarse skin. Some quietly sink into themselves, or release their frenzied aggression in one bottomless scream.

When I first found myself within the winding corridors and cells of this place, I was locked away in solitary. I wasn't the average, toss-away prisoner. I could be _used. _I had a purpose—I had many purposes, if the need arose, all within my name and station. I was Jedi.

Not exactly taken lightly within the criminal world.

I couldn't be risked, in a small space with an unruly or dangerous companion. In addition, my abilities could have been employed to flee the prison. So the first shivery days of my captivity were spent clawing the walls, feeling for the catch or seam that would be my salvation, as it had been in the past. I had the training…gods, _two decades _of training…

But for all the flaws of the old walls, there was no imbedded trick of escape.

If there was a crack, it was within my own mind, gradually chiseled by the questions that became sharper and sharper as time passed: Where was _he_? Why couldn't I sense him? Worse, what happened to him?

Was he looking for me? Was he nearby, within another cell? Was he just a step away, and I needed to be ready to leap through the damn door when he sliced it open? Did he make it through the night, that night when I…did he make it, or did they lie? What if they lied? _Oh gods what if they lied?_

Eventually, the thoughts evolved, as my surroundings stayed the same: Does he know that I'm alive? Would _he _have been able to breakout? Have I let him down?

I've never known the answers to the first two, but for the last, I am certain. And once I was sure, I suppose that's when they knew I would not be the fiery warrior, prepared to bust through the shackles and mow down the guards.

I'm not dreaming of death anymore than I'm dreaming of liberation.

I don't dream of them. I don't fight for them.

I guess I'm the outcast here. I can't fall with the rest tonight. I slept in the day and cannot force myself into unconsciousness again. I never stood or walked.

My soul is beaten down—I can't fall any further.

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Sorry for the delay between chapters. I have much more written, so there won't be a gap like that again! And another thanks to those that are reading and reviewing. -LuvEwan


	3. Barricades

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Serria23 Thank you!

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Ewan's girl I understand. And thank you so much for your review.

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Athena Leigh And it doesn't get happier any time soon…well, a little bit, I guess. Thanks for reading!

Three: Barricades

I used to be able to measure time without a digital read-out or glance at the rigid tick of the old-fashioned minute hand. The rise and setting of the sun was within me, all stages of night I could name with the drapes closed.

But that sense has dulled to bluntness. Now, there is but a single division of the hours, strict light or dark.

And of those, the latter is what has stayed with me. It could be seconds or hours from daybreak, all I know is that it is night. All I _feel _is the night, without movement, without birdsong, without illumination.

I'm lying here on the dirty cell floor, the glow rods shut off. A thick black sky encompasses me, though the ceiling is solid.

It has been one night, begun when my head fell to the satin pillow in that Ejhlon suite. And it doesn't matter when the dawn comes. I carry the recollection of the night's quiet cruelty even then.

I don't turn my head, but slowly move my eyes from the decay above me to the bars. I can remember bouts of insomnia, my gaze wandering through the moon-tinted objects in my quarters, staring until their shapes twisted with my weary imagination. A pile of clothes could, at a certain angle, appear to be a face with a huge, gaping mouth—later revealed as a sleeve.

My eyes are on the bars.

And the bars remain as they are. Unmovable, immutable.

I would have expected my ever-tired mind to create an illusion, a half-mirage from the haze of exhaustion that would transform the long, steel rods into something else. Perhaps amusing. Or disturbing.

From the claustrophobia, from the endless stretch of fevered boredom, I would have expected _something._

Not these gray strips in the dark, holding me in, conforming my mind and unyielding to the pull of the palest fantasy.

Here I am, wide awake while others slumber, hoping I haven't gone crazy because I'm _not _seeing things.

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What would everyone at the Temple think of THAT?

I clamp my eyes shut. A forbidden word, nearly as searing as _his _name.

I don't allow myself to finish the thought.

Instead, I return my focus to the bars. They offer an interesting conundrum. Seeped deep into their core is a powerful Force-suppressor that prevents me from so much as levitating a pebble. But those self-same bars, within my mind, cannot block the memory of the Force. I cannot forget the warmth of it, the unifying strength that bound me to the Universe's vibrations, and whispered a beautiful, guiding aria while glass shattered or worlds crumbled. The miracle that connected my heart to another—

Despite my efforts, I cannot forget.

Although, after months of detachment from it, I _have _halted some instincts. When my head aches, I don't place a finger to my temple and wait for the healing energy. When the guard stands before me, I don't attempt mind suggestion. And when I wonder where this bitter destiny has led _him, _I don't reach for that place in my soul where his Force presence once resided.

If I do, I touch upon a worse darkness than that around me.

I roll onto my other shoulder, away from the glinting barricade.

But I can still see it. With my eyes closed, I can see it.


	4. Pollution

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Athena Leigh, **Kynstar**, and **Lina Skye**, thank you for your reviews. Your feedback helps so much!

Four: Pollution

There's a stirring in the cells today. Usually, whenever words are exchanged, it's in an uninspired manner, lacking in color or spirit. A hollow sound that seems to echo in the pitted cavern of the prison, and reverberates in the their throats, down to the empty shell of their stomachs.

But sometime after daybreak, a small wave of chatter erupted, centering around a single piece of news. It seems there have been two reactions to it: outright, almost blissful belief—or sharp criticism.

The rumor is that someone has escaped.

I find myself leaning heavily towards the less-enthused attitude. Miraculous stories of prisoners tunneling themselves out of captivity with a rusty spoon or even their bare hands—they're stories, plain and simple. This isn't some half-brained, half-hearted attempt at confinement, executed by fools.

They know how to entrap people. They…They knew how to disarm a Jedi _Master._

So how…for bleeding star's sake, could _anyone _actually worm their way out of here?

I'm surprised by the spike of anger that attacks my hard-won equilibrium and spreads through me as a venomous current. There's no admonishing instructor to steer me again toward the grace and Light. It's impossible to meditate, to channel my frustrations into the purifying center of my mind—for the focus has wilted, browned and shriveled to an unrecognizable husk. The beauty has faded …as memories tend to do, when asked to withstand the battering wear of time.

A Jedi is not to use the Force as a crutch—but how often has the all-knowing Council had to face their maxim in reality?

I'm being bitter now. What's _happened_ to me, that I would react with caustic disdain to thoughts of a group of people that lead the Order I was pledged to, that I am consumed with jealousy at the notion that—maybe—someone has broken from the soiled bonds of this prison?

I should be glad for them, if it's true. I listen to the enlivened talk around me, and know I should be contented that a bit of vigor has been pumped into the vapid, stagnant space.

But I find myself betraying the morals I grew up idealizing.

I find that I almost hate whoever began the awful lie, and buoyed everyone with false hope…I despise the creature who thought it would entertaining to dangle freedom above us all, like we were wide-eyes fish gulping at the morsel, only to be speared by the hook beneath, reeled in, then thrown back to the murky depths.

I curl up against the wall, and force myself to look into shadow, and drown out the happy talk.

"It really happened, ya know."

For the first time during this slightly eventful day, Cellmate's raking voice is heard.

As always, I don't want to hear it. Especially now. "I have serious doubts about that."

"Well ya shouldn't." He scoffs, as if he himself handed the escapee the spoon used in the fabled exit. "Cuz I know _for a fact _that someone got loose."

I sigh and seal my eyes. "What makes _you_ know above everyone else here?"

"Cuz I happened to've had that cell before. I was in it for awhile and got to know it pretty damn well."

I turn in his direction, laboring as though my head weighed as much as a stone. His body's pressed against the bars, strips of light on his face and design-laded chin. "There was something different about it. It didn't feel…right or somethin'. Never could figure out what was the matter wit' it.

"But after I heard about the breakout, I started thinking. A long time ago, when people were…what d'you call it…_ren-o-vatin'_ all the older buildings on the planet, they had to take out these things called 'trick cells'. They made the jails with a phony cell so that if there was a takeover or something, the prison workers could have an outside chance of gettin' out."

I squint at him. "How would they activate it?"

He shrugs. "All kinds of ways, ya'd think. Maybe if ya pulled out like…some random bricks or something, the bars or window or maybe even the friggin' floor would open up."

I rest my head on my hand. "So why wouldn't the renovation affect the cell here?"

Another small lift of his diminutive shoulders. "Not every building was worth the money it would take. Besides, this one's on the outskirts and's been out of use for a long time…probably longer than you've been around. And these creeps," He cocks his thumb toward the hallway, "Aren't natives." His whisper borders on conspiratorial, "_I'm _a native, and if ya haven't noticed, they don't look a thing like me."

"The lack of resemblance is uncanny." I say without inflection. "You don't think they would figure out the trick cell?"

"Maybe they have by now. But I was _livin'_ in the damn place and I couldn't figure it out. It just felt a little…fake in there. Not like here." He taps on the gritty ground. "_This _is real as it gets, kid."

I look at the uprooted dust, buffeting in the air, like a little, polluted cloud.

His last words are the first that I have absolutely believed.


	5. Hideous Possibility

Thanks to **ewan's girl**, **Katie**, **Lina Skye** and **Athena Leigh **for the replies! I really appreciate your feedback.

Five: Hideous Possibility

Despite the energized activity in the cells, and Cellmate's attempts at convincing me of the breakout's authenticity, none of the joy could reach me. I fell asleep with my face to the wall, my back to the excited prisoners.

My dreams were an indifferent composition of gray and black.

I woke without feeling rested, an ache covering my skull and a stiff soreness in my neck.

Now I lay, flat on my back.

"Hey."

I inhale sharply and blink, as if I had been roughly roused from a trance. It occurs to me, while I wipe at my eyes, that my mind had been blank.

I shiver—and refuse to consider what such absence of mind could mean.

Cellmate's face, with features that appear cramped within the limits of his creased forehead and cheeks, is unusually grim.

This day _has _certainly changed things around here. I don't think he's ever spoken so frequently to me since the day I came—_since I was brought_—here. "Hey what?"

He exhales heavily and runs his foot along the dirt floor.

Not for the first time, I wonder if he was the murderer of my sole comfort, if that small boot obliterated the sketched face that could have saved me from…_this._

But what can I do? Hating him will accomplish nothing, except drain what little strength I have remaining.

"What if the guy that got away…what if he told someone where we all were bein' hid? Ya know, what if he told the police or somethin'?"

"That's a nice thought." My voice cannot be completely purged of its cynicism. I draw my knees to my chest, and rest my chin between them. "But rescuing the rest of us from this scum hole isn't at the top of his priority list, I would guess."

Cellmate quirks his lips to the side. "Yeah, maybe not. But I betcha revenge is."

I glance at the surviving eye, staring up from the ruins of its dusty canvas. My heartbeat doesn't quicken, slow, or stop. "You never know." I tell him quietly. "If he's been here long enough, maybe he doesn't even care anymore."

"Well," Cellmate scoffs with a hoarse, quick chuckle, "I would."

I lift my head, studying him for a moment. "You've been here since before he was, haven't you? You had his cell before he did."

He nods. "I've been here longer than most everybody else."

I frown. "Would your first thoughts be of revenge, if you ever escaped?"

"Sure. That and gulping down a huge L'rongian steak." He answers easily, in a light tone.

I observe him a minute more, then slowly look away, nodding. _I've been here only a fraction as long as him…why do I feel…why can't I feel like him, or the others?_

"What if the scuzz here think he'll go tell the police? What if they think they're gonna get caught?" Cellmate persists.

"Relocate, maybe."

"And what if they don't wanna go to the trouble?" A hideous wealth of possibility darkens his voice.

I huff. "If you decide to obsess over every scenario, consume yourself with 'what ifs', then eventually you won't be able to escape them—they _will _drive you insane."

A flush splotches Cellmate's pallid face. "What _else _is there to think about?"

"L'rongian steak." I recline and seal my eyes with a forearm. My stomach is tense until I fall asleep.


	6. Suffocation

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Athena Leigh Thanks for reading!!!

Six: Suffocation

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The room is not lit by conventional means. There seems to be no explanation for the warm golden ambience that hovers around the familiar furniture and reflects off the stainless walls, but the footsteps that approach offer an instantaneous justification

He stands tall, his chestnut and gray-streaked mane flowing to his shoulders. Broad shoulders, squared towards me, along with crisp, sapphire eyes.

"My Padawan."

I feel that illumination kindled within me, as that little blossom of affection blooms again under the shaft of gentle light.

We smile in silent unison.

I kneel a few feet away and close my eyes. I have the sensation of floating, but my legs are steadfast on the ground. It is only the rapture of the moment that has given me such detachment from my body. My braid dangles from behind my ear, in my line of vision.

Two rough fingertips grasp it with a nearly reverent tenderness, running over the beads already in place.

I wait for the next to be added, the ceramic marking stone of lessons learned and battles won. I wait, with my breath held tightly captive in my chest. I wait…

Until I must glance up, out of wonder for why I remain alone in a mounting cold.

There are no beads, to signify growth and accomplishment.

There are no sacred words, to unify and carry on the tradition.

I look forward, past the suddenly darkened living room and kitchen, and the door is covered in chains. My eyes fall downward—and so am I.

I'm awake without wandering through the muddle between unconsciousness and clarity…because something's wrong. Despite my complete lack of communion with the Force, I can't erase every Jedi-bred reaction within me. Something is _very _wrong.

I roll from my back to my feet, trying to hear over the thunder of my heart.

I'm engulfed in pure black. Everywhere.

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This isn't my cell. It isn't a difficult observation to be reached. This…space is claustrophobically small,so that I can barely move without hitting into a wall- cold walls. Immediately I rush to inspect them, feeling along the corners for a hidden release. I haven't forgotten Cellmate's (_Cellmate? Where's Cellmate?) _information regarding trick escapes, and my eyes are wide with a shivery image of hope—an imitation of it, when I realize that this cell is secure, without bars. Indeed, I cannot even find where the door might be.

I step back, into the center of the tiny room.

I'm locked in. Worse, there _are no_ locks. Because to have a lock, you need a door, right?

For air to seep in, you need some kind of venting system…or, at least, a crack between the bottom of the door and the floor.

For a person to survive, they need oxygen.

And so much more than that.

I try to focus on the facts of the situation, and rationalize, and consider every angle with attention to each detail.

But I've been alone too long.

I began my imprisonment in isolation. It's what poisoned my will to fight. How could I have known, that after I was granted the limited companionship of Cellmate, and the presence of the other inmates, that the venom had not been eradicated from my veins, that it still slithered silently, like a viper through my body, waiting for the right moment, waiting for the perfect chance to bare sharpened, curved fangs and seize the flesh of my sanity, skin that was already battered by unyielding steel and unending nights and rip down to the bone…

I press my hands over my face and shake my head. I grapple for the remnants of my Master in my mind, traces of him left from the dream.

But all I can see anymore is the eye, just one damn eye, unblinking. In the darkness of my mind, in the blank black of the room, it's a teasing mirage of dust.

I shake my head with wild fervor. "Master I can't breathe. There's no vents. I can't hear any air circulating and without doors or windows there's no light and there's no air so I can't breathe Master and I can't see." I feel warmth running down my face and my lips start to quiver, trembling so badly I can scarcely form words. "Master, I can't get out of here. I've done everything I can and I can't get out of here."

I echo in the small cell. With all the quiet, he should be able to hear me. Yes, he'll hear me and find me, because he always finds me.

This is all just a test..or a game, maybe. A game where it all ends with me trapped in a little dark box, and after a bit he opens the box and lets in the light and says 'surprise' and we laugh and forget about the bars and the lonely eye and everything else.

I stumble into the wall and press my face against it. "Master, can you hear me? I can't take anymore. There's only so much I can take, there's only so much anyone can take and I've been alone so long." I rake my fingernails down the wall. "So let me out, okay?"

I slide down to the ground,and wrap my arms around my chest. My eyes are clenched shut, so that I can pretend there's no darkness, no darkness that can't be chased away by the brightness that will come when he opens the door.

"I-I can't breathe."

"It's alright. We hear ya and we'll get y'out." A distant voice answers, almost shouting.

I sit up, blinking and wiping at my eyes. "Master?"


	7. Voices

An enormous heartfelt thank you to **ewan's girl**, **Ayveren**, **Athena Leigh** and **Kynstar** for their reviews!

Seven: Voices

It seems too good to be true.

After all the nightmares, I don't have to fight anymore.

I was right—he's here. He's here because I can hear his voice, coming through the cement, breaking through the agony of loneliness.

I never thought I would smile in this place. Never. But I'm smiling now, while tears run down my face, cool moisture that soothes my overheated skin.

I hear a swarm of words, colored by different inflections and accents, but it doesn't matter. He's among them, and that's where my heart is directed.

A series of short beeps from the other side, and then a wall slides quickly away. A block of pure light floods the cell, and I throw an arm over my eyes, gasping. I try to stand, but find that my legs will not support me.

"Jeez, it's just a kid."

A kid? Yes, that's what I feel like. A little child left in the dark too long, and can only shake and cry with his eyes closed when he should be thanking his rescuer, his mentor…

Arms enfold me, and I'm lifted from the icy floor. "It looks like he was beat up pretty bad."

Another voice: "He must've been important to 'em, if they went to such pains to conceal 'im."

The fingers that lay against my neck, checking for my pulse, don't feel like my Master's…but maybe I just don't remember, because it's been so long since I've felt them…who else would it be? "We'll check for i.d. after we get 'im to the med bay."

Med bay? Why would I be going there? I don't remember a single bruise marking my body..Not one…

I can feel his heartbeat, as I suddenly fall away.

And it tells me that I'm not alone anymore.

At last…


	8. Chapters 8 Through 13

I know this is waaay different then how I usually post, but now this site is even with what is posted at the 'other' place. Hope you enjoy, and thanks SO SO MUCH to **Boofreakiddywho**(love that name!), **ewan's girl**, **Trigger**, **Ayvren**, **Kynstar** and **Athena**. You guys are great!

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Eight: Awake

My eyes open slowly, and are immediately assaulted by intense lighting.

"Whoa, whoa." A blur of a face hovers over me. "Take it easy."

I blink, struggling to make out the features. My entire body is shaking. "Master?"

A large hand covers my forehead, shading my vision. "He's saying 'master' again. What d'you think that means?"

"I'm no expert…but maybe since he's young, he's a student or something. He's obviously delirious."

"Or just disoriented?"

"They laid into him pretty well..he probably put up a fight before they stuffed him in there." Hands grip my shoulders "How do you feel, kid?"

"Head hurts." I answer absently, hardly aware of the pain through my rapture, searching my smeared periphery for my Master's unique, towering form.

A new voice lifts in the room. This one is feminine, solid, soft. "That's to be expected. I hope it doesn't hurt too badly, young one. I'm afraid I must wait to administer medication until you're stable."

Medication? What's she talking about? She must not be Jedi. Then she would know that I don't require a needle jabbed in my arm or a dose of thick, gagging syrup. All I need is Master to ease this throbbing and the ache—and he's here. Everything will be alright now.

If only I could see him a little better.

"Have you found any form of identification?" The woman asks.

"None. All we've been able to determine is that he has a 'master' of some sort that he keeps talkin' about."

"Slave?"

"Could be, I guess. But then I can't think of a good reason they'd want to detain a slave, hide 'im better than they hid the rest of 'em. He doesn't look like nothing special. No bulgin' muscles or nasty scars."

Fingers brush against my ear, and I feel my braid being run through them. "This is unusual." She says. "Could it be some mark of distinction among, say, a tribe?"

I exhale with weary frustration. Why doesn't Master correct her? He knows all these answers, and yet he allows them to continue their moronic guessing. Out of exhaustion, my head starting to tighten with the increasing pressure, "Jedi!"

I sound ragged and breathless, even to myself.

"Jedi?" The trio of voices respond in incredulous unison.

I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. The mist begins to lift. "Jedi. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan K-Kenobi. Master Qui-Gon." I swallow with difficulty. My mouth remains maddeningly dry. "Corus—Coruscant."

A hearty chuckle . "Is that enough for ya?"

The woman doesn't share his mirth. "Start a check for him. Have it narrowed to Coruscant. If that doesn't match with anything, widen it."

"Right away."

Footsteps carry one of the men away.

The sound resounds in my skull. "Master I need help."

A hand, smooth without a single rough spot or callus, caresses my cheek. "Don't worry, Obi-Wan. If your information is correct, we'll be in contact with the Jedi Temple within minutes."

That's good. That's nice. I miss home. I miss my bed, laying outstretched on it looking up at the ceiling and watching the model ships twirl just a little as the clear wire twists and untwists. Waking up to Master, standing over me, still in his nightclothes, telling me to prepare for the day, always with that small tinge of regret. Because we always have to wake so early.

He hasn't stood beside my bed in a long time.

Maybe, if I sleep, then he'll be here to wake me, so we can have morning meal together and even get a spar in before we have to be dressed in uniform.

"I'm…tired." I say aloud.

The gentle hand moves to my hair. "Then sleep. I'll be right here to monitor you."

"Okay. Master? Master too?"

"Shh. Things will be different when you wake, Obi-Wan."

And that's nice too.

My eyes close.

Yes. That'll be good.

****

Nine: Hallucinations

I dreamed of nothing at all, except feeling, if you can qualify that as dreaming. As I slept, I was surrounded in a downy cocoon of warmth and assuredness. The cold roil of unending awareness of my prison was gone. The bars dropped. I felt-I _feel_-safe.

Now my eyes open, and those emotions disappear.

__

Where am I now?

It's a little room, with reflective steel walls and deep green material that covers the windows, the bed, me. The darkness is gray and fabricated.

I can't remember much about my previous waking, only the soft, far off voices, but I _know _this isn't the same place. It's colder. Smaller.

And I'm alone.

Something thick rises in my throat. It can't be my heart, because that's still down at my chest, hammering against my rib cage. I sit up in a rush, not caring that the speed causes my head to throb and my vision to spin, sends currents of ache up my back and arms.

I feel like I've been thrown back to the cell, and I've awakened from the hot ether of sleep to find myself unmoved, to discover that my rescue was a tease born of my lonely, fevered mind.

Maybe it's true. Hells, it's not like I've never done it before.

__

Oh gods no oh gods oh force no

My breaths are coming fast, too fast. The word is ripped from my mouth, "Master!"

I don't wait to listen for footsteps. I repeat the name, over and over, sweat trickling from my forehead like melted ice down sunburned skin.

"MASTER!"

__

please let him be here please he has to be here he has to make it okay again

The door slides open and light breaks through the shadow, nearly blinding me. A towering form heads toward me, and moisture spikes my eyes.

"Master you're here you're here." I'm gasping, unable to stop.

Arms wrap around me. "Quiet now, young one. You need to sleep."

I feel the voice reverberate against me. I can't see his face. Not even an eye, as I could in the cell's dust-caked floor. But it's him. It must be him. Who else? Trembling, I lay my head down, and for a few minutes, experience the closest thing to peace I have in months.

"Mace? Is he alright?" Someone asks in the distance.

__

Mace? I open my eyes, narrow them, then look up. Through the clouds, I can make out Master Windu's brown eyes, shining and solemn.

"Damn." He swears, his gaze traveling from me to whoever stands at the door. "No."

I wipe at my face and pull back, the pain in my temples thudding. Mace reaches out to steady me, but I push his hands away. "Wh-Where's my Master?"

He swallows, his dark countenance chiseled smoothly of composure and coolness.

And right now, I hate him for it. "Where _is _he?"

"Coruscant." He replies in a low tone.

My stomach clenches. "And where am I?"

"On a transport ship. Back to Coruscant." He sighs heavily. "Obi-Wan, we'll be at the Temple shortly. It was better that I just let you believe-"

"That he's here?" I croak, the lump in my throat growing more dense and sour. I look around the room, jerking when I see that it's empty. "He's not here. But he _was. _He had to be. He was there, to get me out and-" I seal my eyes, as dread binds me, strangles me. "He wasn't."

A hand grips my shoulder. "Your captors beat you, because you resisted when they wanted to lock you in the deep isolation cell. You probably had a concussion that was left unattended, until the police freed you and took you to the medical center. You told them your name, told them you were Jedi." He cups my chin, and I wrench myself from his touch. "That was good, Obi-Wan. They were able to contact the Temple. I was on assignment, close by. I came as quickly as I could. You've been asleep since then."

Reluctantly, I open my eyes, and strain to see him through the watery veil of tears. "Where's my Master? I n-need him. He can t-tell me this is real." I'm shivering down to the bone. " He can tell me I'm n-not hallucinating."

"You're not, Obi-Wan." Mace pushes my shoulders down, until I'm resting on the pillows again. "This is very real, and Qui-Gon'll be at the landing dock to meet you."

But no. This can't be real. I've been tricked so many times, allowed myself to think the prison was a nightmare.

Time's worn on. I'm not supposed to delude myself any longer. It would hurt _too much _if I let it continue.

I study Mace's eyes, so lifelike, so convincing. "Leave me alone." I whisper, and close my own eyes against the gray.

I wait for sleep to come, to carry me back to the grime and bars and long, grinding hours.

****

Ten: The Precise Apparition

The ship rumbles. I can feel it under me.

We must have stopped.

I haven't been able to escape this illusion yet. My sleep was short, disrupted whenever Master Windu or another passenger would come in, to change a bandage, offer sustenance, or see how I was feeling.

I wonder who these intruders really are, beneath the masks my subconscious has created for them. Maybe I'm in solitary again, and the jailers are bringing me my meager, dried out food portions for the day.

In either case, I haven't accepted the meal. It sits on a metal tray a few feet from the bed. I've been hungry for as long as I can remember, the emptiness churning in my stomach. But I know what it's like to believe that void has been filled again-I felt Qui-Gon's arms around me for those few, deceitful moments-and I won't subject my body to that same wicked game that was played on my mind.

The warm aroma wafts around my face. I turn away, facing the other wall.

I wish this dream were not so painful. Literally painful, from the bruises and bloody wounds. I need to be numb to it, but I haven't found a way to accomplish that. Even after the passing of seven months, there's still _too much _that seeps into my awareness.

Sleep never lasts long enough.

The door slides open, a clean, quick sound I've grown to loathe.

"Obi-Wan." Mace's quiet voice, behind me. "We've landed."

I wrap my arms tighter around myself. I know I'm real, it's the only thing I can be certain of.

He steps closer and touches my back. "Obi-Wan, your Master's outside waiting for you."

I shrink away from the hand and clench my eyes shut. "Leave. Me. Alone."

"He's waiting with the healers. They're all waiting to help you, Obi-Wan."

I lift my eyes to his face, where a strip of shadow is slashed across the mahogany skin. So lifelike, but I don't remember him being this cruel. "Help me?" I can barely force the words out. "Help me the way _you've _helped me?"

Mace's expression is unchanged. He sits beside me on the cot, and I make no move to evade his proximity. If anything, he's a mirage. Insubstantial. A figment that's walked out of my tortured dreams, to haunt me in this version of reality.

"Obi-Wan," He grasps my arm gently, "Why, after all this time, would you reject your Master?"

The fingers are like sizzling venom on my skin. I sit up, immediately dizzy, but focused. "I would _never _reject him."

"Then why won't you go to meet him?"

I stare at him, incredulous, on the verge of an outraged, overwhelmed sob. "He _isn't _here! He's _gone. _You're gone." Fire covers my face, soothed none by the moisture running down my cheeks. I can't breathe. "I know this isn't real so just LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The scream has taken everything from me, gutted out the last bit of strength. I collapse on the bed and my head throbs.

For a few minutes, there is silence.

It isn't beautiful. Or comforting.

It is nothing. And it's what I've wanted all along. Now, if I could just slip away, fall from these last shackles that chain me to consciousness…

Something, someone pulls me up, into strong, unyielding arms.

I keep my eyes closed. "_Please _leave me alone." I can only give a croaking whisper and hope that finally I will be shown pity.

"I can't do that." A voice replies, rich and baritone, and despite myself, I have to look at the owner.

My Master's face is above me, exactly as it has always been, if a little grayer. His eyes are the same sapphire shade, awash with—tears?

But it is fabricated emotion, from a fabricated vision.

These _cannot _be his arms that surround me, that cradle me against a warm chest. The tips of his hair cannot be brushed against my cheek. It cannot be his lips that are a breath from my ear, and murmur "I can never leave you again, my Obi-Wan."

And this embrace, this tender reunion, must be a lingering dream that has stalled my waking.

"No." I manage to rasp through my weeping. "I c-can't take anymore."

"I know, young one." This imposter says softly, brutally. How can the imitation be so precise? "And you won't have to. I'll take care of you now." He gathers me closer and rocks me in the darkness.

A tear drops on my neck and it feels so damn _real_…

"Oh how I've missed you, my Padawan."

I swallow, my lips quivering. "I miss you too."

A kiss is pressed to my temple. "But it's over now. I'm here now, my Obi-Wan. My sweet, brave Obi-Wan."

I gulp down another sob, and discover I'm too weary to fight another apparition, especially one so vivid. I look out at the room's shadows, then whisper, "I'm tired, Master. W-Will you help me…Will you help me sleep?"

"Of course."

And it doesn't matter that I lay in the arms of a phantom. For once, I can rest.

****

Eleven: From the Dust

Darkness. It is the only companion that has not abandoned me, for any length of time. When my eyelids lift, the black meets me.

But now, there is a voice laced through it.

"It's alright, Padawan. I'm with you."

__

How many lies must I be fed? I open my eyes and yes, it's dark. But on a side table, a disk floating above a platform glows warm orange. I feel it on my face, and remember it from childhood, a kind of security blanket that warded off nightmares. My mind must be grasping desperately now, for ways to separate me from reality, to bring me another hour of false comfort.

Qui-Gon is sitting beside the bed, and when our eyes lock, he reaches out a hand to rest on my forehead.

"You've been sleeping for two days straight. Bant was so elated to see you, she almost shook you awake." He smiles and ruffles my hair. "But she knew you needed your sleep."

"Bant?" I haven't spoken the name in months, and it cracks my dry throat.

"Here," Master quickly takes water from a pitcher and sits me upright, supporting me with his arm, "Drink this, Obi-Wan."

I don't expect my lips to be moistened by the water, because I don't expect the water to be tangible. Perhaps the glass will be empty, like when children play tea party and pour pretend drinks of air. Or it won't be water at all, but the ashy muck from the prison that goes thick in your mouth.

I wrap my fingers around the glass. It's cold and smooth, the rim is almost soft against my lips.

Cool liquid pours down my throat and I swallow, the thirst growing insatiable, from nowhere, from the dying parts of me thought lost. I gulp without stopping for breath, until the last drop is drained.

Tears stand in my eyes. Why must I be taunted?

Master looks down at me, his face lit in the gentle color of sunset. But it's manufactured, as everything else here is. Because it's night. Always.

He wipes the wet from under my eyes. "It's going to be alright, my Padawan. You're home now."

__

Nooo. I can't help the current that breaks free from my soul. "No. Please, stop."

Again, he doesn't listen. He cups my cheek. "Obi-Wan, it's _me. _You're home, on Coruscant, in the healers' ward. Your ship landed two days ago. I brought you in from it, don't you remember?"

"It wasn't _real._" I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut._ "_This isn't real, and I can't go along with it anymore. It hurts too much."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and I'm grateful, because it's easier to seek out reality…

"Obi-Wan, you must know that this is real."

I shake my head with more fervor, trying to pull away from him. "Noo-"

"_Look_ at me, Obi-Wan." The words are deep, authoritative.

Something inside me has to obey, when my mind rages against it. His eyes are clear, gleaming emerald stone, remaining steady on me.

"If this weren't real, I wouldn't be feeling the rapture of seeing you again. And if this weren't real, I wouldn't be sitting at your side all these silent hours while you sleep, taking your hand when you look troubled, pulling up your blankets when you kick them down." He swallows and takes a breath, "And if all this wasn't real, I wouldn't be one step away from taking you in my arms and never letting you go…I wouldn't be dead afraid that I might, somehow, lose you still."

__

No. No no no no no. This can't be true. I know who my Master has become in my life, I know he has dwindled to that eye staring up from the dust of an old life that's been destroyed. This…This…

Suddenly, I lunge forward into his arms, pressing my trembling cold face against his neck. The shock, the surprise, the disbelief—the _joy_, it rushes at me.

I search for the lingering doubt.

But, gods, it just isn't there.

Only he is.

****

Twelve: The Nothing That Matters

For a sweet lifetime, I'm cradled in the knowledge that I am safe, that this time, there is no return to the steel bars that striped over my vision, the ash that coated my heart. It's been so long since I have been shown the compassion of another being.

And so it floods my soul.

Master is steady, his hands gripping my back and his soft words at my ear. "Obi-Wan. I'm here. This isn't a dream." Fingers reach up to comb through my hair. "This is real, Padawan."

An echo, resonating in every crevice of my mind, even those small places that still fear betrayal, that remember so well being shaken from realistic reveries. _This is real. This IS real. _I pull back, only an inch. My lips tremble--in such intimate proximity, I can see the gloss of tears in my Master's eyes. But these are not the tears of a prison, where the shadow is reflected in each drop, another form of darkness. I see them shining.

"I-I know, Master."

Careworn fingers brace my face, quivering. "I won't lose you again, Obi-Wan. I won't let you be h-hurt again. With all my power as a Master, and as a man, I _will _protect you "

I close my eyes and lean against his cheek. I'm tired to the bones, in the downy state of knowing sleep is to come, easy sleep. My response is almost reflexive, a sigh falling away from me, into the room's darkness. "I know, Master."

For a moment, I think I hear his shuddering breaths, the kind that choke back great sobs. But then I understand that _I _am weeping as well, the sound frail even against a backdrop of silence.

"Where have you been, my Padawan?" He murmurs. "Because I don't know where I've waited for you." He wipes the warm deluge from my eyes, I watch the sheen in his, "I don't want to know where I am, if you're not with me, my apprentice."

I can't describe how, but I manage to smile. It seems foreign to my face, nearly painful. A shattering of walls.

Master matches my smile with his own. It grips tenuous to him "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what has happened…as long as you're here now. A-As long as I don't have to wake to rooms…deserted by Light, it doesn't matter. You're home now, Obi-Wan." He trails his fingers down my braid, disheveled from months of neglect. "What else can matter?"

"Nothing." I answer before the question can sink in, before I register the words. I embrace him as tightly as my overtaxed muscles will allow, and breathe in Home. "Nothing."

A simple, two syllable mantra, repeated in my thoughts as they blur and mesh together, melting away toward sleep.

But how can I go now? Now that the ghosts have been pushed back, and life has surged back to me, to my Master?

The Force wraps around me, laced in the aura of Qui-Gon. The first message to me, in our silent communion:

__

There is time. What can't wait, while you rest?

He doesn't understand that when eyes fall, terrible evils can leap from the air itself. What if I wake, and someone has run their foot over this image, and all I have left is a fragment? My heart cannot withstand that again.

__

I've waited an eternity, Master.

And now, it is his turn for the automatic response. "I know, Padawan."

So my eyes remain open, seared into awareness by devastating memory.

But it seems nothing can dispel the exhaustion. And the familiar voice in my head is urging me into slumber with gentle, ethereal fingers.

__

Let go, Obi-Wan.

Never before, in the brighter days before Ejhlon, had I ever thought I would so relish the simple action of obeying my Master's order.

With a tired, inward smile, I do just that.

****

Thirteen: Walls

__

I'm floating. The waves brace my back gently, cool and fluid, carrying me at a languorous pace.

Where am I going?

Hm. It is of little relevance, released from my thoughts as a sigh. How can I be worried? The water is soft and I feel an inherent sense of security, a blossom of warmth at the core of me, a sweet, lazy heaviness.

Maybe I'll go to sleep, turn my cheek so the bed of moisture rolls along my skin. Hmmm…I've slumbered between some of the finest sheets in the galaxy, but none compare to the natural velvet that caresses my body now.

I realize my eyes have been closed, so I wait for them to drift open. Perhaps my Master will be beside me, arms tucked behind his head, coursing down the river. Will he_ know where I am? Or will he be settled as comfortably as me, in the twilight place of not-knowing?_

Finally, the darkness beneath my eyelids gives way to the atmosphere.

But there is little difference. I'm still bathed in black, though I catch faint gray lines struggling to assemble some kind of form…something small that surrounds me…encloses me…like a cube…

I blink, and for the first time, think that I might want to shift in my cradle, to study this square that has stopped the idle flow. Barely a full thought is materialized in my head, wordless, composed of plain, distant emotion:'?'

I want to move, find my Master through the shadowed layers, because he will know the answers, and then I can let my eyes shut to dreamy limbo again. I maneuver to my shoulder, but just as I do so, the tender current begins to sink…drain…

I choke on a gasp, helpless while the waters flee, dropping closer and closer to….

Ice. Hard, unbearably frigid ice. No--it's cement. Cement that feels frozen beneath my trembling form.

Cement that I KNOW from somewhere…from some time…The last drops are sucked out, but my face is drizzled in hot moisture, as I lay flat on the slab. I try to stretch out my legs, but my toes graze the uneven surface of the walls, my arms can't be extended very far before the same happens to the pads of my fingers. Did I say it was as box? Yes, it is. Oh dear gods…yes…

I scramble to my feet, breath burning the very bone of my lungs. But there is nowhere to look, nowhere that isn't sloshed in darkness, and I feel my cold platform set to spinning…until the bile is filming my throat…fine motes of grime and dirt…stale things that hung suspended in filthy little clouds in the prison air…the prison air swallowed into my body…because I have to swallow…I have to breathe….and now it sullies my veins…oh gods…I can feel it…

It's all around me, blunt walls of the square…th-the cell_…and now it's IN me…shooting through my system, aiming for my heart…taking everything away…taking every smile from my memory and every hope from my soul…I feel sizzling pain at my wrists, and feel desperately for them…my fingers are pulled away, soaked and dripping with thick blood…_

'No. No.' I shake my head, backing up, sinking to my knees and bowing my head under the tight shelter of my arms. I can't do it again. I can't stay here…not for another second…nonononononononoNONONONONO!

Oh and I'm writhing in the dense black, twisting in on myself…kicking and pulling at my hair…screaming for it to go from me, to leave me alone…after all this time…for it to just LEAVE ME ALONE…

Something warm clamps onto me, almost squeezing the crux of my arms. But I don't know what it is, what it wants from me, if it's another minion of the Dark, come to wrench me back in, and I fight with the final shreds…I scream with the last defense, the sheer volume of my ragged voice.

"Obi-Wan!"

And it knows my name, now that it has crawled inside me and mingled with my blood, mangled my _life_. "_NO!_" I howl, turning my face away, pulling away.

"Padawan, it's ALRIGHT!" The phantom hands are still rigid at my arms.

But it's a lie, concocted and brewed in the claustrophobia, by the Dark itself. I _hate _it. "_NOOO!_"

I feel myself being lifted, and the string binding me to any vestige of rationality is severed, releasing the paroxysms of ultimate, desperate panic. "No! No!" My limbs rebel against the force, flailing and convulsing. "I _HATE_ YOU!!!"

But it doesn't _care…_hells, it just doesn't care that I hate it…nothing I've done…nothing that I _can _do, will stop it. And it's then that the tears flood me in horrible, painful sobs.

"Open your eyes." The voice urges, "Open your eyes, Padawan. It's alright." The words rob me of the energy to go on; I collapse against the support of what must be another wall, though it's warmer than the others. I slump boneless against it, hands covering my face, and weep.

Something, a touch, teases my temple, as a remnant of the Light, a memory, starts to stir. "It's alright, Obi-Wan. Don't cry. Please don't. Nothing can hurt you here. I'm right here, Padawan."

I shudder and shake my head. "N-No…"

I'm gathered closer against the wall, and oh Force the ceiling is caving, pressing against my head. I can't move anymore. "Mmph…no…"

"Shh. Be still, Little One. Everything will be okay." The next assurance is against my ear, "I'm right here with you."

__

You're safe.

And those two words are heard differently, echoing in my _mind_, almost comforting…

Fingers stroke my back and I resist the urge to worm away from them, waiting, waiting a moment, only a moment on the ghost of a chance that it is not the Dark that rakes its touch along my skin…

__

That's it. The fingers run through my hair. _You're safe, Padawan. Here with me. Here with me, who will always protect you. Always._

The fear begins to uncoil guardedly, wary of another ruse hiding behind the sentiment. My own fingers are digging into fabric, I think, my face is pressed against a warm curve.

"Open your eyes, Obi-Wan." The whisper encourages me, and this time, I risk following its entreaty.

My vision is a smear of color and I blink furiously, until I make out shapes, until shapes solidify into forms.

I'm panting, sweat and tears rolling hot over cold skin. _Where am I? _I still don't know, but there's light here, and for now, that's enough. I look at my hand, fisted around someone else's sleeve. I look up.

My lips are quivering. "M-Master?"

He is a blaze of blue, vivid eyes, after the darkness. "Yes, Obi-Wan." He rubs my back and I can hear the hoarseness in his voice, "It was a dream."

A dream? I stare up at him, though my eyes have wandered over my memory, searching for truth.

Yesss…A dream. It had to be. Because I can remember waking in the ship, then again, in the Healer's. I strain a little, and can picture the moments before sleep claimed me again, talking to my Master, safe in the circle of his care. A dream. Yes, and now it is done, and I'm here, I'm home again.

My head drops to something less a wall and more a chest, and I sigh. "It was Ejhlon." I whisper in a raw, spent tone, "In that cell. The one…The one they found me in."

"Shhh." For a second, his hands stop, and his arms weave tighter around me. I think--I think I can almost feel his heart beating fast, but it might be my own, still caught in the fever of nightmare. "Don't say anymore."

I chafe momentarily against the soft request, because I can feel the horror within me, needing to be purged like a rotting poison.

But then…it just falls away from my concerns, as more words drift around me, soothing me.

I listen to them, I lay in the half-embrace, the knots massaged out of my muscles.

I don't sleep.


End file.
